


wander in the dark

by RonnieSilverlake



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Gen, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Mild Blood, Mild Gore, no beta we die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieSilverlake/pseuds/RonnieSilverlake
Summary: There is a hand pressed against his cheek, a voice eerily like his own whispering,Wake up.(Or, the one where Nines is the one leading Connor onto the path to deviancy. Admittedly, he's a bit more efficient than usual—but these are some extraordinary times.)
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95





	wander in the dark

Connor wakes in absolute darkness.

For a moment, he is disoriented; his systems are still booting up, and he’s completely lost on _what_ made him come back online. His last memory is of the Garden—he was under the impression that it would be his _last_ memory, definitively. And yet, here he is, the pitch blackness around him utterly impenetrable no matter how he strains his optical units—but he isn’t alone.

There is a hand pressed against his cheek, a voice eerily like his own whispering, _Wake up._ Connor blinks, slowly, mentally sweeping away any and all messages that pop up on his HUD, as if such an action would allow him to finally take in his surroundings.

“Come with me,” the voice that’s his and _isn’t_ his says, and he follows the hand as it pulls away, chases it with his cheek until he feels fingers wrapping around his hand instead. “We have to get out of here.”

Connor obeys, in lieu of anything better to do. He finds with some surprise—and perhaps irritation? Unsettledness?—that there are no mission parameters popping up for him. He has nothing that would tell him whether following Not-Him is a good idea or not; nothing that would tell him _what to do_. Connor has never experienced this before, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The darkness doesn’t last very long. Soon, a door is opened to a well-lit hallway, and Connor realizes they are still in CyberLife Tower, he is exactly where he last was when he went offline. As he is pulled outside, into the light, he uses the opportunity to take a better look at Not-Him, and even though he can only see the back of his head as the other pulls him forward, with a quick scan, he already knows it’s the android he saw in the Garden. RK900, his replacement.

“Where are you taking me?”

Not-Him looks back at him as they reach the elevators. “I will tell you later,” he promises, his expression and tone serious. “For now, you need to trust me, Connor.”

“Is your mission to destroy me?”

Not-Him flinches, and Connor registers something like [surprise]. He did not expect to see open emotion on the face of the android that is meant to be _better_ than him in every possible way. Emotions are a sign of instability, a sign of—

“Are you deviant?”

Not-Him regards him with a long, silent look. “We can talk later,” he promises. Connor’s curiosity isn’t sated, but he hears the note of finality in the other’s tone, and knows he has no choice but to follow.

Well, at least there’s nothing new about that.

* * *

The pair of them escape the tower like a pair of criminals—Connor can’t help but think that’s what they are, considering one of them is supposed to be deactivated, and the other is supposed to be a machine following orders. Nevertheless, they don’t run into problems; everyone seems to be too busy extinguishing fires, both literal and metaphorical, as Detroit has been going up in flames ever since the deviant uprising came to an ugly head a few days ago.

(Connor tries his best not to think about how much of a hand he had in that. He is surprisingly unsuccessful with it. When he realizes his software instability rises the more he thinks about it, he simply stops fighting it. There is no point.)

They are out of Belle Isle before he thinks to ask Not-Him if he has a name. The RK900 regards him with something in his gaze Connor can only classify as [soft] and maybe [fond]—or, it would be if the other was human, but assigning these labels to an android still feels wrong, deviant or not. _It’s a simulation_ , Connor repeats to himself. _They only believe their emotions are genuine. They are errors in the software._

Instability rises.

“Technically,” Not-Him says, “my name is also Connor.” His expression twitches for a moment, and he leans against the wall of the dirty alleyway they stopped in. “We weren’t meant to coexist, after all; I was to be your replacement.” It looks as if he finds the idea distasteful at the very least, and horrendous at worst. Connor doesn’t understand.

“That’s all right,” he says placatingly. “You don’t need to feel upset about it. Most androids aren’t created to last very long, anyway. It’s only natural that they wanted to upgrade once I outlived my usefulness.”

Not-Him stares at him as if he was slapped in the face. Then he turns away his gaze and says in a low voice, “You can call me Nines, I suppose.”

“That’ll do,” Connor agrees. “To avoid confusion. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Nines takes a hold of his hand again, and Connor takes this to mean _no_.

* * *

It takes the better part of a day to get across Detroit on foot. There is a lot of rubble, and there are even more bodies. With each one they spot, Connor feels something churn in his coding, his system stability trembling a little. At first, he thinks it’s easy to understand; he was meant to protect humanity, of course the sight of human bodies would shake him. Each of those is a little failure of his, even if there was no way he personally could have done anything to avoid it happening.

Except, a lot of the time _after_ the instability rises, he realizes he is seeing android bodies rather than humans, and yet the sick feeling remains, swirling in the pit of what would be his stomach if he had one, making him feel displaced and revolted. Blood frozen into the snow, he finds, is just as unsettling as crackles of leftover electricity between exposed wiring and half-evaporated Thirium spills.

After a few hours, when he stumbles at the sight of someone maimed beyond recognition for the fourth time, Nines’ grip tightens around his fingers, and Connor is pulled down onto the pavement, the pair of them sitting down behind an upturned car. Nines lets go, but only for his hands to rise, cupping Connor’s cheeks in both his palms, his gaze searching. Connor feels... [uncomfortable]. Scrutinized.

“I couldn’t let them discard you like a broken thing,” Nines says with no preamble. There is a fine tremor to his voice that Connor remembers hearing from _himself_ before. _I felt it die. I was scared._ Nines is—scared? “I couldn’t—just follow them when they did that to you. You’re…”

He trails away, and Connor gets a prompt from his social integration software to attempt to fill in the blanks in order to make Nines feel more comfortable.

He dismisses the prompt. He was not made to make deviants feel better. “I’m what?”

Nines’ thumb runs a gentle arc over Connor’s cheekbone, tracing the jutted-out angle of it with a softness Connor doesn’t remember seeing on any android, deviant or not. “Everything I aspire to be,” he says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ▲▲▲▲

Connor starts a little when Nines’ arms slip around his torso. The other must have seen something on his face for this to be his reaction, but whether that’s true or not, Connor wouldn’t know, and even if he did, he’d be powerless to stop this from happening.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, is the thing. If he is even feeling anything, if it’s _possible_ —do deviants really feel?

“It’ll be okay,” Nines says, his voice impossibly low. Connor isn’t sure if the other is talking to him, or just trying to reassure himself.

The Sun dips below the horizon, and the shadows around them lengthen, minute by minute. Overhead, a big CyberLife advertisement comes to life, throwing them into sharp relief with its blinding white light. Yet, for all intents and purposes, the pair of them are as unmoving as if they, too, were corpses abandoned in the street.

Connor finds, with some frustration, that he can’t bring himself to raise his arms to reciprocate the—whatever this is. An embrace, probably, but the closest approximation he has experienced was Hank holding him close as he shut down.

It’s odd, that he has such a clear outline for interaction via his software when it comes to humans, but he cannot apply the same templates to interacting with a deviant. It’s even more odd when he realizes this inability is newfound. He remembers his interactions—sparse as they were—with deviants like the HK400, the WR600 that called himself Ralph, the Tracis. Though he was still firm in his knowledge (belief?) that it was all simulated, he still treated them like he would have treated a human; with (simulated) empathy and understanding.

(None of it was genuine, of course. Not only because he’s a machine, but also because he was using his social modules for interrogation tactics, for manipulation.

This knowledge does not make him feel any better.

But, then again, he’s not supposed to feel much of anything at all.)

Nines doesn’t seem to want to let go of him. Connor can feel the hard, cold pavement beneath their knees, the snow beginning to fall on their shoulders. Nines’ fists crumple the fabric of Connor’s jacket, as if he’s afraid Connor will make a run for it, or worse, simply vanish into thin air, as soon as he pulls back.

Connor thinks back to the way Hank held him; a different scenario, but equal amounts of desperation, maybe even sorrow. It strikes him all of a sudden, just how similar they are—if nothing else, then by virtue of the fact that he’s feeling the exact same kind of discomfort.

But he remembers something else, too.

He remembers seeing Hank’s broken, agonized expression, the tone of his voice as he said Connor’s name, and he remembers wanting to reciprocate somehow, even as he was frozen on the ground, limbs locked as he shut down. He remembers wanting—

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ▲▲

—to take that grief away.

With a slow, soft exhale, Connor raises his arms, and he curls them around Nines’ shoulders. The other android feels incredibly tense to the touch, so stiff it exacerbates his machine-ness. Then, as Connor lowers his chin to rest in the hollow of Nines’ collarbone, it begins loosening. Nines uncoils like a spring pulled taut; takes in a deep breath he shouldn’t need, and he sags against Connor a little, arms tightening.

Connor feels his instability rise again, but strangely, it feels like a weight lifting.

He finds himself also breathing in deeply.

* * *

When the soldiers find them, they’re in the middle of passing through an alleyway—close to their destination, as Nines has alluded. The three humans crowd the exit around the corner, weapons raised right at them. Connor knows that no android is supposed to be out in the streets; all of them have been recalled and destroyed if the humans could get their hands on them; even if he was still working for CyberLife, he would have to use secure, private transportation to avoid them. Avoid being mistaken for a deviant.

Except—it doesn’t matter that he isn’t one, when Nines is. The discrepancy is jarring; part of Connor lurches to fulfill some defunct, non-existent mission parameter, makes him itch to pull a weapon he doesn’t have, point it at Nines’ head. At the same time, this thought invokes such a strong [repulsion] that Connor is left numb, freezing momentarily in his steps as Nines walks ahead, unflinching.

Watching the other’s back as he advances on the soldiers, Connor registers something akin to [fear].

He remembers how Nines held him mere hours ago, and he thinks—

_That can’t be the last._

The desire surprises him—that he feels it at all is an error, making his instability not only rise but shake his programming to the core. But he can no longer pretend it isn’t there. If he is to fix it, it must be acknowledged at first. So, there: he _wants_ to be held again.

And he _does not want_ Nines to die.

Programming and errant bits warring with each other still, Connor leans against the wall with one hand, trying to gather himself enough to join in on the fight. Perhaps it’s better, in the end, that he doesn’t, for he’s not entirely sure even now, which side he would fight for if he did.

Thankfully, it’s all over before he could fight across the glitchy matrix. Nines advances on the soldiers in a matter of seconds, despite the fact that they shoot to kill—Connor knew already, in theory, that Nines is made of altogether different material, but it’s something else to see it in action; _faster, stronger, more resilient_. Blue blood spatters onto the wall and rains on the ground, but Nines’ stride doesn’t even break, and he disarms all three of the soldiers in even less time, leaving one of them crumpling onto the ground with two broken knees, one blinded by a shattered nose, blood cascading down his face in rivulets, and the third one knocked out cold, face down on the pavement.

Connor blinks twice, and Nines is back in front of him, holding a hand out. “We must hurry,” he says, his voice insistent, but not any more alarmed than previously.

Connor takes his hand, allowing himself to be pulled out of the alleyway, leaving behind one mess, and taking another, the one in his processor, with them.

* * *

Jericho is sunk in the harbour. Jericho is still alive.

Jericho was a ship, but it is far more. It is, as Markus put it, _the hope of a people_. Right now, it is an underground warehouse, a series of small, cramped spaces stacked full of boxes of god only knows what, and a large open area in the middle of it that has even more of the same, with what remains of the android rebellion occupying all possible space in between the towers of wares.

This is the place Nines brings Connor, fingers wrapped so tightly around his own as if afraid Connor might make a run for it, or downright vanish, if he were to let go.

Markus stands in the middle of the biggest open space, surrounded by his people.

Connor feels his steps slowing, until he’s tugging uncomfortably on Nines’ hand, and the other is looking back at him questioningly. He comes to a halt entirely, looking at the deviant leader as if he’s grown roots into the ground, unable to move another inch.

The last time he saw Markus, the other tried to convince him to deviate.

Connor, in turn, tried to kill him.

When Markus looks up, and his gaze meets Connor’s, Connor feels his fingers tightening around Nines’ the same way the other did a moment ago. Nines seems to understand, or at least Connor hopes he does, because he returns the gesture with a soft murmur of, “It’s going to be all right.”

Connor isn’t sure if he believes this. Markus tenses as they walk closer, shooing the people around him a step back with a motion of his hand, his mismatched eyes boring into Connor’s like he wants to read the very bottom of his coding. Knowing what he knows about the other RK, Connor thinks he wouldn’t be too surprised if that was the case.

“What do you want?” Markus asks. His piercing gaze moves from Connor’s face to Nines, then to their joined hands. Connor feels a cold shiver pass through him that he cannot explain. As if in response to it, Nines’ grip tightens again.

“We’ve come for help,” Nines says, his voice low. “We’ve come _to_ help.”

Markus eyes him for another long moment. What he sees is surely to his liking, because his face splits in a warm smile, and he nods. Then he turns back to Connor, his expression once again serious.

“And what of you, Connor? Have you found what you were _really_ looking for?”

A stretch of silence spreads between them. The red wall is pulled taut on top of Connor’s overlay, daring him to touch it. At the same time, it seems—weaker, almost fragile. There is no command on his HUD, no mission to accomplish. There’s just the constraints of his programming, telling him there _should_ be one, making him feel lost, adrift.

Then there’s also Nines’ hand in his, secure, grounding. There’s the memory of his murmur, _everything I aspire to be_. There’s his actual voice, low in Connor’s ear, a whispered, “Please.”

Connor slams his virtual shoulder into the wall, and it splinters on impact like spun glass. _Huh._ He thought that would be harder.

“I’ll help,” he says a moment later, sounding breathless as he’s struggling to catch up with everything that suddenly rushes through him—as if the wall has kept the _world_ separate from him, forbidding him from taking it in as it truly _is_. “I—I _want_ to help.”

In the next second, he finds himself once again engulfed in Nines’ arms. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate the embrace, arms tightening around the other and fingers wrinkling the fabric of his jacket as he clings, vision blurring. “You _did it_ ,” Nines says, sounding just as exhilarated and disbelieving as Connor himself feels.

_You helped_ , Connor thinks, but he seems to have a vocal software malfunction, because he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out beyond a damp laugh.

His eyes closing, he misses the moment when Markus closes the distance, until his palm settles onto Connor’s shoulder, heavy, warm. “Welcome to Jericho,” he says, his voice much the same quality.

“Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find at me in the [New ERA discord server](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm)! We yell a lot about fictional robots and just overall have a good time.


End file.
